


Shadows and mirrors.

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [38]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bree - Freeform, Gen, Pre-Quest of Erebor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-09-26 03:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9859736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Rumours need to be substantiated, sisters will have to be placated, and plans laid.More than a year before the beginning of the Quest, Thorin journeys through Dunland in search of his missing father. He doesn't find Thraín, but someone else finds him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> re-edited and slightly expanded. 30/9

“Thorin, please!” she shouted, and normally he would have listened to that tone of voice, but not today.

“I have to see, Dís.” He said, just as stubbornly as his sister’s pleas had been. “What if it _is_ Adad?!”

“Please, Thorin, Amad only just died…” She caught him by the wrist, her voice trembling along with her grip.

“I know!” he roared, but Dís did not let go of his arm, and he could not bear to shake off her touch when she looked at him with his mother’s keen gaze. “That’s why I must go, Dís, don’t you see?” his large hand covered hers, his callouses rubbing the back of her hand soothingly. Dís did not want to be soothed.

“I see that you are running away!” Dís seethed, and Thorin knew that she had a point, even if he was unwilling to admit as much. Her temper, a match to his own on any day of her life, was now truly riled, and if she had been given to violent outbursts like their late grandfather, Thorin would have been bleeding by now. “Thorin, please,” Dís lowered her voice, old sorrow creeping into the words she spoke, “you cannot keep chasing every wild rumour you hear. Adad is dead, has been for many years. Amad knew it, I know it, the whole of Durin’s Folk knows it!” Dís’ beads clacked together when she dropped her head, hiding her face behind the dark locks. Thorin cupped her cheek, raising her back up to look her in the eye.

“But if it _is_ him, Dís, we won’t be alone! An-And I can tell him that Amad is dead,” he was pleading now, trying to make her understand why he _needed_ their adad to be alive. Thraín had been missing, _presumed_ , but never _verified_ , dead for almost a century. With Frís gone, Thorin was the only one who remembered Erebor as it had been, for Dís was too young to have more than scattered memories of it, and Thorin needed there to be _someone_ else keeping Erebor alive in their minds. He roundly ignored that he was hardly the only one who remembered Erebor’s glory; Balin – for one – was older than him, and remembered far more, though the recollections pained the Uzugbad with the loss of his One.

“He is dead, Thorin,” Dís repeated, and it broke his heart to watch her so saddened, yet the sight of her almost-tears did not sway his mind from his duty. “He is dead, and you are chasing _ghosts_.” She pulled away from his touch, gritting her teeth. Thorin reached for her helplessly; no idea how he could offer her the comfort she needed. “You are leaving me to rule in your stead to go on a hunt for smoke and mirrors, when you should be _here_ mourning your Amad!” Her fists rained down on his chest, but the blows were half-hearted at best, simply Dís’ way of expressing her sense of helplessness. She was right, a corner of his mind said, as he wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders, pulling her close for comfort.

“I am sorry, Zunshanushê[1],” he murmured into her dark hair, so like his own, as her sobs quieted. Sheer stubbornness kept his own tears at bay, but Thorin wanted to cry with her. He could not, that had been their way, always, even before their third was lost at Azanulbizar; Thorin was strong when Dís needed him to be, and she was there when he needed her strength, like pieces of a puzzle. “I cannot give up hope,” he whispered, feeling her nod against his chest, his dampened blue tunic the only sign of her vulnerability.

“I know. It is a fool’s errand, but you have always been a fool, nadad,” she smiled, and he appreciated the effort even when he knew it was faked. Dís sighed, cupping his jaw and wiping away a single traitorous tear with her thumb. “Go, then, kundanudê, but come back soon. I cannot do this without you too.” The last sentence was whispered so quietly he would not have heard it if she had not been so close to him. With a sigh, he pressed his forehead gently against hers, breathing in the scent that would always be home to him; her citrusy hair oil, made with the rinds from the oranges Amad’s secret gift-giver sent each year, a hint of juniper, and the smell of the jam tarts she had baked this afternoon mingled in his nose with the smell of the soap she used – some sort of herbal thing he’d once brought her from the Shire – to make up all that was his little sister. He kissed her forehead, tugging on one of her long temple braids with a crooked smile. Dís shook her head, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Her eyes – so reminiscent of Frís’ – remained sad, but Thorin knew she was determined to be brave in the face of his absence as often before.

“I will hurry, ‘unnayê[2], I swear it.” Dwalin would stay home, keep her company, he abruptly decided; even though he would have preferred to have his beloved’s company on this trip, Dís needed someone to lean on while he was gone – and as it couldn’t be him, Dwalin was the next best choice.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He was tired, and chilled, and the rain was beginning to soak through his blue hood, which did not make him feel any better about his failure. Chasing smoke and mirrors indeed. Dís was right, as usual, but Thorin knew she would still look at him with hope of news when he walked through the door; news he had once more failed to obtain.

When he finally saw the lights that marked the town of Bree, he drew a sigh of relief. He had enough coin for a meal and a room, perhaps even a bath, if Butterbur was feeling kind or needed some pots mended. The thought of selling his skills for pittances rankled, but it was an old, familiar pain, and Thorin ignored it in favour of dreaming of a nice bowl of hot stew. That he, the Prince of the Lonely Mountain, rightful heir to the throne of Erebor, and King of Durin’s Folk, had to slave in Men’s towns to put food on his sister’s table was by no means a new indignity, though Thorin tended to stop himself from thinking about the ignominy of his lot. He would do – had done, in some cases – anything if it meant Fíli and Kíli did not go hungry to bed. Things were better now than they had been, but seventy or even eighty years would not erase the memories of Dís’ gaunt cheeks, the phantom pangs of long-ago hunger when they’d make do with half a meal to ensure that the little ones had food.

“Who goes there?” the Gate-Keeper asked, obviously as displeased with having to be outside in the inclement weather as Thorin himself.

“Master Oaks, travelling blacksmith,” Thorin replied evenly, when the lower window in the gate opened and the Gate-Keeper – not the same one as the one who’d stood there on his last visit – could give him a once-over.

“What brings you to Bree?” the Man asked, blinking water out of his eyes.

“Looking for a night’s rest and a meal,” Thorin responded. It was better not to state his intended journey, he had learned; Bree was less hostile towards his kin than many places, but he’d still be careful.

“Welcome to Bree, Oaks,” the Man replied, opening the gate a fraction, slamming it behind Thorin almost before the edge of his cloak had made it through the small gap. With a scowl, the dwarf pulled his hood down further, making his way towards the merry sounds of a bustling inn.

 

Opening the door of the Prancing Pony, Thorin was hit by a wave of warm air, liberally scented with the heavenly aroma of beef stew and fresh bread, as well as an undercurrent of pipe-smoke and dark ale. He breathed in deeply, before making his way to the counter. It was slightly too tall for him, but not overly so, given his height. He mastered the snigger that threatened at the sight of one of the small Hobbits trying to get Butterbur’s attention. The innkeeper had to lean all the way across the counter just to notice the short fellow – a not inconsiderable endeavour considering Butterbur’s girth. With a few terse words, the tired Dwarf managed to order a plate of supper, which he paid for in coin. He knew that the mistress Butterbur would find him if she wanted to trade for his services, as she usually did. He didn’t mind her, for she was one of the few Bree-folk who did not look down their noses at him and his kind, which was a trait all the more valuable for its scarcity.

“Ah, Master Oaks, here you are, supper and plenty of it,” the rotund woman smiled, swinging a fully laden plate in front of him and setting down a mug of ale too, which he had not ordered. That boded well for Thorin’s desire for a hot bath, if nothing else. Dwarrow were made to endure, but the unending deluge he had walked in since yesterday morning had made him chilled to the bone. “You wouldn’t mind being so kind as to have a look at some of my copper pots, would you, Master Oaks?” she asked, and Thorin did not mind, in fact he’d be pleased to and could he trouble Mistress Butterbur for some bathwater and a lit fire in his room later, perhaps? With a feminine giggle, the woman waved off Thorin’s counteroffer, and – deal completed to the satisfaction of both parties – swanned back to her kitchen. He liked her, Mistress Butterbur, who always called him Master Oaks, not just a sneered ‘Master Dwarf’ or a simple ‘Oi, Dwarf!’. It was the little things, Thorin thought, which made all the difference. Copper pots – which, if he knew mistress Butterbur, and he did – had been slightly dented breaking up some argument or other, were of course beneath his skill entirely; a job for a second—year apprentice at best, but he would mend them gladly anyway, simply because of her kindness. Setting himself to the task of thoroughly enjoying his supper, Thorin still did not miss the dark glances his way from some Men in the corner, who had a decidedly unfriendly look to them. He was just about to pull his sword loose in its scabbard when an old man in a grey cloak and hat joined his table. Thorin stared. He had not seen Tharkûn for many years, but it could be no one else.

“Mind if I join you?” Thorin could only nod; not that the wizard waited for permission. He let go of his sword slowly, leaving it strapped to his pack. At least the wizard’s presence meant a little respite from the glares of Men, though he would be sure to watch those two in the corner closely. Even if he was not travelling under his own name, the Heir of Durin could never be too careful. Across from him, Tharkûn simply snagged Mistress Butterbur’s sleeve, heedless of Thorin’s dark thoughts, and ordered his supper with a friendly smile and a gesture at Thorin’s plate. “I’ll have the same.” Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin caught the Men who had been staring so intently at him backing away to their darkened corners. “I should introduce myself,” Tharkûn said, and Thorin felt a frisson of amusement that he thought it necessary, but did not reply. When dealing with wizards, grandfather had once told him, it was always best to find out what they already knew before you opened your mouth. The small gem had been hidden in a longer rant about the coming and goings of this exact wizard, but Thorin had paid attention to little of it at the time, even if he did retain that one piece of advice. “My name is Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey.”

“I know who you are.” He could not help but feel at little smug at Tharkûn’s obvious surprise. “Though we call you Tharkûn, where I come from.”

“Well now!” Tharkûn exclaimed, seemingly pleased. “This is a fine chance. What brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree?” Thorin had no need to wonder how the wizard knew his name; for someone who had known both Thrór and Thraín as well as King Dáin of Thafar’abbad before them, Thorin’s looks would be a dead giveaway of his kinship with the Line of Durin. He briefly considered lying, but perhaps the wizard knew something he could use.

“I received word that my father had been seen wandering the Wilds near Dunland,” he explained quietly, tracing a knot in the wood of the table, “I went looking, and found no sign of him.” The pain of his wasted journey rankled; envisioning the sorrow his sister would not be able to hide when he told her that once more he had no answers. Dís had not believed that Thraín was alive after he had been missing for a few years, but Thorin knew the lack of answers pained her as much as it pained him. Never knowing what had become of their father; it was a wound in his soul that would never truly heal.

“Thorin, it’s been a long time since anything but rumour was heard of Thraín.” Gandalf replied, but Thorin couldn’t help but think that the wizard was keeping something from his response. He scowled.

"He still lives; I am sure of it.” It was nothing concrete in the Wizard’s countenance, but the feeling of secrets in the air remained, even as he replied fervently. Mistress Butterbur broke the tension with her timely arrival, bearing another platter of hot food. “My father came to see you before he went missing. What did you say to him?” Thorin wondered; a century had passed – almost – since Thraín had mounted his ill-fated expedition. Thrór had spoken of a way back into Erebor, and Thraín had left to find a way to regain their legacy, the heirloom that would let him command the armies of the seven clans under one banner; call them to one united cause, just like he had done in the War with Orcs. With the heavy losses sustained at Azanulbizar, nothing less than the possession of the Arkenstone would grant him the support of the other Lords.

“I urged him to march upon Erebor; to rally the seven armies of the dwarves, to destroy the dragon and take back the Lonely Mountain.” Gandalf replied, and here came the core of the matter, Thorin thought, pensively gazing at the old Man who was no mere Man. “And I would say the same to you. Take back your homeland.”

A strong certainty filled him, though he busied himself with picking up his mug of ale to hide his sudden revelation. Contemplating once more his grandfather’s sage advice concerning wizards, Thorin gambled. “This is no chance meeting, is it, Gandalf?”

“No, it is not.” Even if the wizard had not admitted it, Thorin would have known it from his face. “The Lonely Mountain troubles me, Thorin. That dragon has sat there long enough. Sooner or later, darker minds will turn toward Erebor.” Gandalf paused for a bite of the stew; Thorin had nearly finished his bowl, sopping up the last gravy with his bread-roll. “I ran into some unsavoury characters whilst traveling along the Greenway,” the wizard remarked casually, “they mistook me for a vagabond.”

Thorin snorted a half-laugh, hiding his amusement in his mug, “I imagine they regretted that.” He felt a stab of pity for whichever hapless fool would dare attack a wandering wizard. He had to agree that Tharkûn often resembled little more than a vagabond, an easy mistake to be sure, but a potentially fatal one. The wizard had a reputation for temper, after all. Even if the story of wizards turning people into animals and such might not have basis in truth, Thorin had no doubt that the ire of a wizard would be a terrible thing to behold. Gandalf simply nodded, once more absorbed with his dinner.

“One of them was carrying a message.” Based on Gandalf’s frown, he might not have hidden his amusement quite well enough, Thorin thought, once more thinking of his sister, who always knew exactly what he was thinking. Hopefully the wizard could not read him as easily, Thorin mused, or whatever he wanted from him would be far too easy to gain. Reclaiming Erebor was a dream, of course, and he could not deny that he longed to feel its cool green stone around him once more, that he wished to walk through her halls and listen to the sounds of his people, happy and well-fed once more, enjoying their crafts rather than pinching every coin they could scrape together in towns like Bree. His attention came back to the wizard when Gandalf placed a piece of dirty cloth in front of him. He could distinguish writing, though it looked like no words he had ever seen, the letters oddly shaped. Nothing like his own angular cirth runes, but not like the flowery elven scripts either. If anything, it was a peculiar mix of the two styles, which somehow only made the writing uglier. Besides the letters, the cloth held a crude drawing that Thorin could only recognise as the Lonely Mountain because he knew its shape so well. His nephews had drawn better as five-year-olds, but the uneasy feeling that came over him at the sight kept him from dismissing the message with a scoff. “It is Black Speech.” Thorin, who had been reaching forward to take the message, warily pulled his hand away. The ugly letters made sense now, and he had no wish to touch anything the Orc filth had made. Revulsion filled him, turning into anger at the wizard’s next words. “Promise of payment.”

“For what?” Thorin feared he already knew that answer, for why else would the wizard have told him about the message at all?

“Your head,” Gandalf said bluntly. “Someone wants you dead.” ‘ _No, really?_ ’ he wanted to say, and only long years of experience as a leader kept his tongue silent. “Thorin, you can wait no longer. You are the heir to the throne of Durin.” Gandalf urged, bending low over the table. “Unite the armies of the dwarves. Together, you have the might and power to retake Erebor. Summon a meeting of the seven dwarf families. Demand they stand by their oaths.”

“The seven armies swore that oath to the one who wields the King's Jewel, the Arkenstone!” Thorin protested tersely. If the wizard wanted to rile his temper, he need only continue with this futile topic of conversation and Thorin would snap, already wearied from his fruitless search and short of temper. Even the excellent cooking of Mistress Butterbur had not mellowed him to the point of wanting to discuss the blight that had invaded his home. “It is the only thing that will unite them, and – in case you have forgotten – that jewel was stolen by Smaug.” Honestly, if the wizard simply wanted to convey a warning, Thorin had understood it already, and he would do nothing different than what he had been doing every day since his father’s disappearance: keep his head down and get on with making a life for his exiled people. Azog had wanted the end of his Line, and though the Pale Orc had died at Azanulbizar, even Orcs probably had heirs to avenge them. A motion in the corner of his eye had Thorin looking up sharply. Gandalf’s gaze followed his, and they watched silently as the two Men who had made him feel uneasy enough to reach for his sword in the bustling inn rose from their seats and left together, glancing back over their shoulders.

“What if I were to help you to reclaim it?” Gandalf asked quietly. Thorin almost wanted to laugh. The wizard seemed so in earnest, as though they could set off right now and be back by breakfast!

“How? The Arkenstone lies half a world away, buried beneath the feet of a fire-breathing dragon.” Thorin said, masterfully squashing his scoff once more. Frís would have been proud, he thought, feeling a sudden pang of longing for her soft smile, the quiet sound of her cane striking the floor when she walked through the house.

"Yes, it does,” Tharkûn smiled, the twinkle in his eye revealing that he knew what Thorin’s initial reaction had been. “Which is why we are going to need a burglar.” Reaching into his grey robes, Gandalf drew out another object, presenting it with a flourish that would not have been out of place on the stage of a theatre. Thorin almost laughed, until he realised what he was looking at. There was the Lonely Mountain again, but this time it was rendered in loving detail, even if the red ink had faded with age.

“What is this…?” almost reverently, he reached out to trace the lines on the paper. “A map?”

“It was given to me, once, many years ago, by someone I did not know.” Gandalf sighed.

“Who?” Dread filled his very soul, and even before the wizard spoke the damning words, he knew, he _knew,_ what Tharkûn would say.

“It was given to me, deep in the wilderness of the northern mountains, by a Dwarf who had lost his mind. His body had been extensively tortured, and by the time I found him, he only managed to tell me that I should deliver this to his son. He gave no description of the Dwarf in question, and it was only recently that I realised his identity.” Thorin found himself praying that the name was not what he thought it would be, yet he knew that it was coming. His hand clenched around the table’s edge. “It was given to me by Thraín, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain.” Thorin could not speak. He wanted to cry, as he heard his hopes turned to ashes, but the middle of a busy inn was not the place to break down. With more effort than he had ever before had to expend, he kept his temper and his emotions in check. Gandalf’s voice was sympathetic, but there was no doubt in Thorin’s heart that his words were true. “He is dead. I am sorry for your loss.” Idly, Thorin wondered why he hadn’t said so at the beginning of their conversation, but his mind was spinning too quickly to make sense of the wizard’s whims.

“Why did he want me to have a map of Erebor?” he asked, aiming to fill the sudden silence between them, staring at the aged piece of parchment. The runes… Thorin stared. Suddenly, it all clicked, Thrór, the expedition and Thraín’s certainty. “There is a Door. There is a way in. That’s what he was trying to find a hundred years ago!” With a shudder, Thorin remembered the skeletally wasted form of Dwalin when he returned – the only one of the expedition to survive entering the Forest – more than half-dead and heart-sick at the thought that he had abandoned his King to death, but determined to face whatever punishment Frís would mete out, even when he could barely stand. If there really _was_ a way in… perhaps their deaths had not been in vain, Thorin thought, remembering the names of the lost expedition, recalling their optimistic faces on the last day he had seen his adad.

“Yes,” Gandalf replied quietly, though his eyes shone with the same fervour Thorin felt waking in his heart. If there was a way into the mountain… There was hope. “There is a Door.”

 

Dís was definitely _not_ going to like what he had to say when he came back to her, Thorin thought, sighing.

 

 

 

 

 

[1] My little bird

[2] Greatest sister-mine


End file.
